


How to Witchcraft for Dummies

by TornThorn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (They Celebrate the High Holy Days but Really Only Keep Kosher When the Stilinski Granparents Visit), But until, Catches on, Cryptic Deaton, Denmaker Stiles Stilinski, Full Shift Werewolves, HE CAN PRY SHERIFF JANUSZ "JOHN" STILINSKI FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS, Hale-McCall Pack, How do you warn for a misogynistic jerk, Humor, I don't like the term, Inspired by a tumblr thread, JEFF DAVIS WAITED TOO LONG, Jewish Identity, Jewish Stilinskis, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Family, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles-centric, to make crude sexual suggestions?, two alphas, who uses several epilepsy myths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TornThorn/pseuds/TornThorn
Summary: In which Stiles begins learning to use his spark, Deaton is unhelpfully cryptic, the pack is tired of getting dragged in, and the Sheriff is at the end of his rope with the magic crap.





	1. Rules 1 through 5

So, trusting Deaton to teach him how to do this Spark Thing was _not_ going well. Stiles figured he could be Hermione - intense study and focus at the expense of friendships, common sense and sanity, and _bam!_ Instant wizard.

Only his teacher was terrible at explaining things in any sort of logical way. And since his other possible instructor was Morrell (and she had blatantly misused his trust in those mandatory counseling sessions), Deaton it was. It had reached the point where Stiles was pretty sure the guy was now communicating entirely in lyrics from classic rock songs. So he… _simplified_ said instructions.

Lydia had taken one look at his boiled down list, which he kept pinned to his bedroom wall, and slapped the back of his head.

On the other hand, when Peter climbed through his window one night to brainstorm about the latest threat, he’d laughed harder than Stiles had ever seen and told the teen his notes “looked about right”.

Thinking back, that response maybe hadn’t been a good thing.

* * *

**Rule 1: Light those**

Candles. Candles _seemed_ straightforward, if a little too much like he was walking into every 90s romcom, “let’s get it on” cliche. Seriously, when he had three dozen of them scattered around his room and giving off that soft glow, he started looking for a young Paul Rudd and expecting Sixpence None the Richer to start playing.

Anyway, candles. Not so straightforward after all. Turned out Stiles couldn’t just pick the least offensive smelling one at the local craft store and be done. Of course not. Each one had to be the right color, the right smell, the right size, the right style. He hadn’t even known candles came in multiple styles!

And then he had to anoint the stupid things like a Catholic baby being baptized. (Not that Stiles really knew how that worked, considering he’d only ever seen it on TV. And why did it seem like Catholicism was the only christian religion ever name-dropped on television?)

So anointing, then reciting a mini-blessing, and Deaton insisted Stiles had to use matches to light each candle, even though it would be faster to use his powers. (Fire was one thing he could do absurdly easily.) Apparently using his Spark to do it could mess up the “energy of the invocation”. (Stiles was pretty sure that was a quote from a movie.)

* * *

**Rule 2: Stab this**

No one was happy about the whole sharp objects thing. Which Stiles considered patently unfair. He used pushpins and kitchen knives all the goddamn time, and it had been _years_ since anyone had been hurt.

(It hadn’t even been _him_. It had been his creepy babysitter, Mrs. Patterson. The batshit old lady had always brought over cookies that she’d either preserved since rationing in WWII, or they’d been poisoned. Either way she would insist he eat them. And sure, maybe she’d lost a tiny bit of her left pinky when she had attempted to stop Stiles from making dinner for him and his dad, insisting that ten-year-olds couldn’t be trusted to cook anything. But it’s not like the wound had been on purpose!)

The point was, despite Stiles’ protests and examples to the contrary, no one wanted to trust him with the necessary athame or long pins. Scott was so concerned he convinced Deaton to hold off on getting Stiles the necessary tools.

So Stiles had gone to Morrell. And she had still been skeevy and over-invested in his emotional stability. But as soon as he mentioned Deaton “hampering learning opportunities”, she’d pounced like a cat on a wounded squirrel.

* * *

**Rule 3: Carve that**

All of which led to the whole totem problem.

Deaton suggested Stiles have one main focus item, and several others for specific circumstances. (At least, that’s what he _thought_ Deaton meant. He was now attempting to translate what he was almost positive were lines from musicals into actual actions.)

So there’s one of snakewood (which had been painfully difficult to work with) for increased physical endurance. And a polished chunk of multi-colored fluorite to make him impervious to mind control. And the thigh bone of an arctic fox he’d been attempting to scrimshaw. (Deaton had been very clear that the animal had to have died of natural causes. Luckily, Stiles had found a geology student in Iceland who sold found bones and feathers on etsy. Alda was nice, if alarmingly obsessed with her native volcanoes and lava flows.)

The newest was a torc Chris had picked up at a Ren Faire while he was passing through a small county on a job. (A legit, arms deal job. Not a “yeti loose in Burbank” job.) It was very basic, two lengths of steel twisted together into an almost complete circle, with stylized wolf heads as the terminals. It fit closely around Stiles’ wrist, the canine snouts almost brushing as they lay against his inner wrist.

Of course heating the metal up enough to stamp a few specific runes on the inside band was a pain. Luckily, Deaton knew a guy with a home forge, who agreed to let Stiles use it in exchange for a few protective wards put up around his house. (Considering the way the dude’s eyes had flashed orange and how sharp his teeth were and how the heat didn’t seem to bother him, Stiles threw in a few “notice me not” spells as well, since he sincerely doubted the guy was human, or that he wanted gossipy neighbors noticing his unusual physical aspects.)

Anyway, during the next Something Wicked This Way Comes town invasion, each of the totems came in handy at a different point. (Especially the torc. The ability to lessen internal injuries that Stiles had woven into the metal with the runes was definitely helpful. Being thrown twenty feet across a clearing and into a tree by a rampaging Leshy was _not fun_.)

* * *

**Rule 4: Shake jar**

It reminded him of that scene in _Lilo and Stitch_ where Lilo’s “punishing her friends”. Take a jar, fill it with liquid (In this case, one-fifth goat’s milk, one-sixteenth lavender oil, and the rest from the river through the preserve.) and add appropriate herbs. (He was still a little confused about the difference between cilantro and coriander. Or maybe there wasn’t a difference…?)

Then throw in symbolic representations of the spell’s focus. He could do _way_ better than Lilo’s spoons when it came to symbolic versions of his friends! Admittedly, if any of the pack members found out who took their stuff, Stiles would be in for a world of hurt. Still, as long as the spell worked, Stiles figured it was worth the cost.

(The pack… probably wouldn’t agree.)

And okay, so he’d let his suppressed kleptomaniac tendencies go a little wild. But it meant his haul was far stronger for carrying a little bit of his packmates’ essence.

Some were easier to get, like one of Cora’s five thousand ponytail holders, or a note Danny had passed him in chemistry about Harris’ normal jackassery, or a bandaid from Melissa’s purse, or one of Derek’s thrown out sketches for the Hale House rebuild.

One was pure luck. Lydia didn’t have much that wasn't either absurdly expensive, or far too emotionally valuable for Stiles to dare take it. She would kill anyone who touched her schoolwork, and had been using the same sparkly mechanical pencil since Jackson had given it to her in seventh grade. In the end, it was a lost earring, which she specifically mentioned wasn’t worth bothering to track down when Allison offered to go looking. Stiles found the sparkly piece of dangly jewelry in the school library a few hours later and simply kept it.

A few were moderately difficult. The incident report his dad filled out from Stiles breaking into the evidence locker a month ago, a page of Scott’s English notes, Liam’s latest detention slip, the expensive crap Jackson kept in his locker to fix his hair after practice, a make-up brush out of Erica’s purse, one of Isaac’s stupid scarves, and Kira’s Cosmic Glitter nail polish.

At least one was for the pack member’s own good. Although getting Mason’s scribbled out number back from the 29-year-old fuckboy at Jungle had required the intervention of and distraction by several of the club’s Ladies.

The last five were near impossible, and Stiles had patted himself on the back for each successful acquisition.

Getting a bullet out of Chris’ Desert Eagle, and a machined but not-yet-attached arrowhead from Allison had required pretending he was a terrible shot during the next fight against chaos and darkness, and doing so convincingly enough that it earned him a “lesson” from the father-daughter pair.

Stealing one of Malia’s chewed up highlighters only worked because he traded out one in a color she loathed (red) for a brand new green one. (She wasn’t happy about the switch, still super territorial from her years as a coyote. But getting a replacement in her favorite color meant she decided it wasn’t worth tracking him down and retaking it by force.)

For the next item, Stiles waited until a night when all the teen members of the pack were over at Derek’s loft for a movie night. He made sure at least three other people joined him, banging around in the kitchen and opening cupboards and drawers to grab food and leaving their scent everywhere, before he slipped Peter’s favorite tea infuser into his pocket.

The very worst was Boyd. A bribe was necessary to get 13-year-old Tyler to hand off one of the six extra house keys his big brother had stashed around his neighborhood. This was accompanied by a solemn promise never to tell _anyone_ where said key had been kept, and an additional five bucks to each of the beta’s younger siblings (including an already $20 richer Tyler) to stop them telling Boyd who ended up with the key.

And now it all went in the potion, along with a printed off Wikipedia page Stiles had marked to hell and back during last night’s research binge, standing in for Stiles himself. Concentrate on positive energies and the intended result of continued good health, and shake.

And yes, he’d made a playlist to keep track of how long he needed to “agitate the components”. (Shake It, by Metrostation. Shake It Off, by Taylor Swift. Shakedown, by Bob Seger. Shake Your Booty, by KC and the Sunshine Band. Milkshake, by Kelis. And, most importantly, Hey Ya!, by OutKast. “ _Shake it like a polaroid picture!_ ” he sang along, ignoring how very wrong the notes coming out of his mouth were.)

When the music stopped, he poured everything into a strainer, rinsed the items off with more river water, and then laid them out in the sunshine of his backyard, on top of a long piece of smooth cedar wood. 36 hours later, once the new moon was out and everything had dried, he stuck it all back in the jar, filled in the extra space with dirt from the clearing around the Nemeton, and buried it about a foot and a half down, in the soft ground beneath the trees at the edge of the Hale property.

(According to the grimoire he “borrowed” from Deaton, he should have eight years before he had to redo the whole ritual.)

* * *

**Rule 5: Say the thing**

Languages. Stiles was actually kind of good at languages. Or he was, when he learned them by listening. So, like, he had a pretty good grasp of Japanese just from watching a hella lot of subbed anime over the years. And he’d learned Polish and Yiddish and Hebrew from Nana and Papa Stilinski. (Mainly Nana. She’d refused to speak anything else to him when they visited, until Stiles was about eight. She only stopped when Dad had pointed out that Stiles legitimately believed all three languages were just one, and how complicated that would make his eventual bar mitzvah.)

Right before the diagnosis, his mom had been trying to teach him Russian, but she’d only learned the language in broken pieces from her parents, who had insisted on using it as rarely as possible. They’d immigrated in 1977, when Claudia was two, and right smack dab in the middle of the Cold War. It was safer to speak English, and as a result, even though she was proud of her heritage, Claudia grew up with nothing more than a handful of phrases. She’d tried to learn on her own in college, but she was like Stiles - it wasn’t easy when you were staring at words written on a page in an alphabet you didn’t understand, and became annoyed easily when you could start to recognize certain words yet couldn’t figure out how the hell they were pronounced.

Stiles remembered the things she had managed to teach him. Hello, goodbye, the days of the week, mom and dad. And, of course, Я люблю тебя. _I love you._

(That was the one he’d spent days sounding out so he could tell her. He never got the chance. It was what he whispered to himself the first time she looked at him and called him a monster. He’d curl under his covers and repeat it over and over on her bad days, to remind him that, before she got sick, she _had_ loved him. Sometimes, it helped. A lot of the time, it just hurt worse.)

Anyway, Latin. Lydia, that amazing goddess, had picked up Latin and Archaic Latin like it was _nothing_. And Stiles tried, he really did. Still, no matter how many times she explained it, everything seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Same with the other languages a few online witchcraft buddies suggested: Sanskrit and Gaelic and Welsh and even fucking _French_. The day he had stopped by Deaton’s to beg the man to let him just cast in English was one of the best days of the whole mess, because Deaton’s weird, profound, fortune cookie-style sayings actually _helped_ for once.

“So long as it resonates with your essence, it will be the tinder to your soul’s flame,” the vet had said, tone even despite the kitten trying to claw off his face as he put one of its legs in a cast.

From that point on, Stiles fell back on Nana-talk, the combination Polish/Yiddish/Hebrew he’d spoken as a kid.

The first time he rambled out a mess of words asking the universe to grant him a shield against evil intent, the universe _listened_. And it was awesome!

(The fact he got more of an invisible force field that stopped anyone from getting within a foot of him for two days until he figured out the correct words to dispel the thing was… less awesome.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a tumblr thread started by earth-horn. A full, ordered list of whose posts I used, will be included at the end of the fic.  
> Also, this story is complete! I'll be posting a chapter a week until all 11 chapters are up.  
> Additionally, I headcanon Stiles as Polish and Jewish on his dad's side (although both Stilinski men treat it as more of a heritage than a belief system, following tradition to celebrate the High Holy Days and keeping kosher when John’s parents are around), and former Russian Orthodox on his mom’s (they'd go to the nearest Christian church for Easter Sunday and Christmas).


	2. Rules 6 through 7

**Rule 6: Knock pans together**

“Are you  _ kidding me? _ ” Stiles demanded.

Deaton’s smile was infuriating. “It's actually a tradition with a great deal of history worldwide.”

“Huh,” he muttered. Then he stared down at his two implements and glanced suspiciously at Deaton. “And this is in no way payback for turning all those dogs blue earlier?”

“Of course not.” The answer was too quick and collected. But what else was he supposed to do? Throw a tantrum that restless spirits were either morons, or that his teacher was punking him?

* * *

**Rule 7: Yell**

Which led to him walking right out to the curve of the trail through the preserve that they’d been getting reports was being haunted by a woman in white. He followed that up by spending two hours smacking a steel serving spoon against the base of a stockpot, shouting the exorcism (which Deaton had helpfully taped to the bottom of said pan before Stiles left) as loud as possible. Again and again and again.

When he tried to talk the next day, all that came out were sad little croaks. Erica joked that she’d always had a thing for the strong, silent type. “Too bad only one applies, and that’ll wear off by tomorrow,” she laughed.

Stiles got Danny to hack her phone and change her ringtone to the Wilhelm scream. The glares he got from the wolves were totally worth it the first time it went off in class and got Erica a detention with Harris.

(To this day he has no clue if the “ritual” on the trail actually worked, or if there was never a goddamn ghost to begin with.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, but the next one is long to make up for it.


	3. Rules 8 through 12

**Rule 8: Collect items that are completely useless but you need them anyways**

His Pile of Weird Stuff for Workings started with a couple shell casings from going to the firing range with his dad.

Next was a sad looking, beaten up teddy bear he found in a gutter, by the warehouse with the inexplicable subway car Derek and the pups had lived in once upon a time.

A tube of empty lipstick Maxine Magenta left behind in the bathroom at Jungle, a teeny bit of sparkly red stubbornly clinging to the bottom rim. A roll of electrical tape that had sort of melted together in the shed during last summer’s heatwave. A bag of twenty-something lost keys in various stages of smashed, broken and worn down to a thin blade. Six wheat pennies, ranging in dates from 1912 to 1957. A broken camping ax, its edge dull and the wood handle cracked right along the grain. A mini, plastic toy of a black swan. Roscoe’s previous oil cap, replaced after their run in with a troll a month ago. A single aluminum tube stolen off a windchime from one of his neighbor’s porches. The list went on.

The best part was he legitimately had no clue what he would do with any of this crap. Just that it had “called to him” (He hated Deaton for that phrasing.) and thus would almost certainly be useful later. Asking _later_ _when?_ got a shrug and an enigmatic smile. (Seriously, just _so much_ hate.)

* * *

**Rule 9: Stare very intensely at objects**

After his stash got big enough that he was running out of room to keep it in his closet, Stiles decided it was time to do _something_.

A black garbage bag in hand, he forced everything in and clomped down to the family room. Laying out his Summoning Cloth (Okay, so it was actually just a 5’x5’, patterned satin tablecloth he bought at the neighborhood thrift store…), he dumped out the bag, spreading all the items out, sorting through them and tried to sense how any of this stuff could be useful to him or the pack.

He managed 27 minutes of sitting and staring before his annoyed confusion (combined with a bouncing knee and tapping fingers) brought him to his feet.

“Screw it,” Stiles muttered, gathering all of it back up. Maybe a change of location would help.

Four hours later, after trying his backyard, the public park, a holding room at the sheriff’s office, the school lacrosse field, the Nemeton’s clearing, and the roof of the hospital, he still didn’t have a clue what to do with any of the shit he’d been collecting for the last month and a half.

Standing in front of the ambulance bay, heavy bag over his shoulder and contemplating his next move, Stiles’ stomach decided to whine about how long it had been since he ate.

Checking his phone, Stiles shrugged. Derek’s place was the closest, and the alpha would probably be out for another hour. Stiles could head over, make a sandwich and grab some chips, then try again at the loft.

* * *

**Rule 10: Awkwardly position your hands on it**

After food, then clearing a space in the main room, stretching out the cloth again and laying everything out in the same pattern as all his earlier tries, Stiles stood. He tried to strike a suitably intimidating pose, feet apart, shoulders back, fingers wiggling madly in the air above the mess. He slowly bent down, picked up the teddy bear, strategically laid one hand over its torso where the heart would be on a living creature, and the other at the back of the neck, then glared into its little button eyes, as though trying to intimidate it. “Reveal your secrets!” he pronounced, loud and demanding.

Which was, of course, when Cora walked in. They stared at each other for a silent minute before Stiles watched in shock as her customary scowl twitched, shook and then turned into full on laughter.

Moments later, Peter and Derek had both come running into the room, staring in amazement as their normally taciturn family member rolled on the floor, clutching her sides while crying with mirth. It was probably the first time either man had heard the girl laugh since- since before the fire.

When the three piled together like puppies, Stiles abandoned his magic shit where it was and crept out the door, deciding he would come back another time when the remaining Hales weren't remembering how family acted. He sent out a text for the rest of the pack to avoid the loft for the night, and couldn't stop his proud smile. Maybe it wasn't the goal, but he felt like he'd managed to help a miracle happen.

* * *

**Rule 11: Bury the thing**

After several additional attempts at getting the stuff to do what he wanted, Stiles piled it all in a second bag and dropped it on the table to glare at it.

A few minutes later, he called Isaac.

Since the tall wolf had gotten over his super-powered douchebag stage, the inevitable sniping between Stiles and Isaac had become less pointed and more fond. The attempts to emotionally wound had been replaced by friendly teasing, and they were both happy for the change.

Plus, Isaac was the easiest puppy to bribe with promises of baked goods, something Stiles was always willing to take advantage of. Which was why, despite grumbling and telling Stiles to bug someone else, Isaac showed up pretty fast after Stiles asked for help.

When they stood outside in the yard, Isaac’s former job as a gravedigger came in handy. Stiles waved around at the space and said, “I need to bury some stuff.”

That earned him a wary side-eye, but it was _Stiles_. Combining that fact with the promise of two batches of snickerdoodles meant Isaac didn’t argue, just started walking around checking for the easiest spot to dig.

(Stiles was fascinated when the wolf explained that they needed to find dirt that was soft, so no clay and not too dry, but still thick enough that they didn’t get buckets of sand and dust that would slide right off any shovel, making the work take way too much effort.)

Maybe five minutes of said digging was completed by Stiles, who failed to do more than make a tiny dent in the ground before Isaac rolled his eyes and took over. “Make it three batches and we’re even,” he announced, wielding the shovel with confidence, thrusting it easily into the soil, before levering out an enormous chunk of dirt and tossing it aside. Despite Stiles deciding that the bag needed to end up six feet deep, Isaac still had it finished in maybe thirty minutes, and he wasn’t so much as out of breath.

Stiles dropped the black plastic bag to the bottom of the space, tossed in three pyrite crystal chunks, three sage incense sticks, a sprig of basil and an ace of spades face card. He closed his eyes and leaned over the hole, meditating on the need for mental clarity and increased intuition, then let Isaac fill it back in.

He would give it a week, and see if anything had come to him by then.

* * *

**Rule 12: Burn the thing**

Digging the sack back up was a royal pain. (He maybe shouldn't have decided on the symbolic aspect of burying it the same depth as a coffin. Or already promised several deserts to the most easily bribed puppy. How the hell had Isaac managed this without even breaking a sweat? Oh, right, _werewolf._ ) Then he dried it off, laid down a circle of sand, piled wood on top, and stones around that, and invited his favorite pyros over for the ceremonial “you won't do what I want, so fuck you” burning.

Kira arrived first, bouncing with enthusiasm and sifting through the crap for stuff she wanted to personally toss on the flames. (Her mom had told her, even as a kitsune rather than a nogitsune, her fox soul would be drawn to mischief, controlled chaos and focused devastation. Kira had been relieved at Noshiko’s words, glad to hear her internal glee when things went wrong was a supernatural trait, and not a sign of psychopathy.)

Allison was a little more hesitant to join them, but arrived within half an hour of Stiles’ text. (Her affinity to flame, once something that made her stand out at summer camps as “the brave one”, became horrifying in hindsight, after she came to recognize Kate and Gerard’s obsession with the destructive medium. She had spent months suffocating under personal shame for sharing an interest with her cruel relatives. It took Scott coming to Stiles, who in turn forced Allison and Derek to sit down together and actually talk about the Hale-Argent casualties, before Allison started to believe that her fascination with fire didn’t mean she was Kate reborn. It was a work in progress, but she was getting better at differentiating herself from her family.)

Liam, after his latest stunt lighting up a trashcan in one of the school bathrooms (to show a freshman how it was actually done, he’d claimed) had been metaphorically put on a short leash by Scott, and thus not invited.

Snorting to himself in his head about the mental leash joke, the boy stood back as the girls threw one item after another on the flaming pile of wood. Watching the sparks catch as the shit was demolished to ash in the heat felt cathartic. Right up until the moment he realized this meant he had to start collecting random crap all over again. Dammit.


	4. Rule 13

**Rule 13: Salt**

If Stiles didn’t know better, he would think he was in one of those Supernatural pulp novels he used to devour. (His interest had fallen away when his life practically turned into them.) The amount of salt involved in everything magic was ludicrous.

And carrying enough of it around to be useful was a pain in the ass.

Until Boyd got back from an Arby’s run and handed him a small bag filled up with the tiny salt packets available at every fast food place in existence. Stiles asked everyone to pick up a handful or two whenever they went out to eat, from that point on.

Unfortunately, Boyd was the only one who actually _did_ bring any back.

At a pack movie night, when Boyd appeared with a large ziplock baggie brimming with packets - courtesy, he said, of his entire family - Stiles openly told Derek he’d been demoted. “Boyd’s my favorite!”

Well aware of how fickle Stiles was with the “favorite pack member” title, everyone laughed.

Still, the warmth emanating through the pack bond revealed how pleased Boyd was, despite his unwavering stoic expression. And the next morning Stiles made red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting for breakfast, the dessert Boyd always requested when it was his turn to pick.

* * *

**Rule 13 and 1/2: Salt everywhere**

The amount of salt Stiles had taken to carrying around in the little free condiment containers  was absurd. Every time he changed or pulled on or off a hoodie, the tiny white squares went flying.

Jackson proved to be smarter than he looked when he started calling Stiles stuff like the Great Salt Lake and the Dead Sea. (Still not as smart as Jackson might have hoped though, because when Lydia found out that despite taking the time to look up locations for mocking purposes her boyfriend had still failed a geography test the same week, she was very vocal about her displeasure. Everyone had enjoyed watching the subsequent lecture.)

Despite the ridicule, Stiles kept insisting the salt would come in handy.

Which was why it was painfully ironic that, when faced with an aswang in the shape of a large black cat, he forgot his stash and went for mountain ash instead.

One near mauling in the loft parking lot later, the shapeshifter was caught in a thick circle of salt. And Stiles was crowing to Kira and Derek (in between wincing while Peter wrapped up his clawed leg and bitten arm) that he _knew_ the salt collection was a good idea.

The aswang switched to a more humanoid form, bloodshot eyes the only thing that remained through the change, and scowled. The kindly looking old woman in its place tried to excuse its actions. “Surely you understand. I was hungry, I need to eat!”

Derek growled and hunched forward, barely holding back his beta shift. Stiles hobbled forward, Peter and Kira supporting him on either side, and the grin he offered the aswang was nasty and sharp. “Derek’s downstairs neighbors have a five-year-old girl. In Beacon Hills, it doesn’t matter if you’re human or supernatural, if you go after kids the sentence is death.”

There was wailing and shrieking and threats. But in the end, Kira took off the thing’s head, and they buried it separate from the rest, both parts wrapped in rosaries, each with a bulb of garlic and covered in a layer of salt.

And the neighbors’ little girl, Mahalia, told Derek a few days later that she no longer felt like “someone’s watching” her.


	5. Rule 14

**Rule 14: Plants**

Technically he knew that the number of plant genera alone was in the bajillions, but ohmygod, there were _so many with useful properties._ Wood and herbs and weeds, and decorative flowers and bushes, and fruits and veggies. Oak twigs for enhanced protection, and rosemary for clearing the mind and strengthening memory. Burning nettles could drive out negativity, while columbine blossoms boosted courage. Thyme helped to interpret dreams, kumquats attracted money, and broccoli (while still his dad’s least favorite healthy side dish) amplified magical power. Yarrow and amaranth and rowan and ragweed and crocus and garlic and aster and bittersweet and freaking _catnip_ , and they were awesome.

Some had a history that tied to specific runes and sigils, or beings and creatures Stiles used to think were fictional. Others were utilized in modern medicine. Peter had been super useful when it came to the ones that could be used in teas and poisons. (And if there was a more perfect example of how to describe Uncle Creeperwolf to the unsuspecting, Stiles couldn't think of one.)

And the types that supposedly enhanced love, and/or sexual passion, and/or fertility? The list was so long, it made him dizzy. Seriously, one gal (who, at first, he assumed was either unrequited in love, or just horny as all get out) talked about a bunch of useful herbs on her blog. The number of plants mentioned: 53. The number of descriptions that didn’t involve infatuation, the libido or increased chances of pregnancy: 5. Then he kept reading on other websites and in a few old books, and it looked like humans had been obsessed with using plants to increase their chances of getting off for a long, _long_ time.

Personally, Stiles thought the whole love potion idea was skeevy as hell, but until someone tried it on him or one of his pack, he wouldn't have to deal with that mess.

He had also never realized _Melissa_ was named after a plant. (It was part of the mint family, with a lemony scent, and apparently the flowers tended to have a ton of nectar. The longsuffering nurse had let him ramble for twenty minutes about it before sharing that her mom had given her a planter of the stuff for a wedding present, telling the new bride that it would bloom for as long as the marriage did. The plant was dead inside of two weeks, despite being a pretty hardy species. “I probably should have guessed how the marriage would end, too,” Melissa laughed. Stiles pulled her into a bear hug, then diverted the conversation to happier matters - namely how good his dad was at keeping houseplants alive. Hint, hint.)

It was also both cool and explained a _ton_ of odd lore when he found out, historically, a lot of plants were referred to by “secret” names. (Although if it was to avoid suspicion, calling something like mustard seed “eye of newt” would, Stiles guessed, _increase_ the amount of paranoid witch hunters.)

His favorites were the ones he knew that turned out to have crazy backstories, or that would cause weird effects if used wrong, or were just plain wacky.

Mistletoe, for instance, wasn’t just the holiday bloom of awkward and contrived kisses. According to myth, it had been used by Loki to kill Baldur, and was supposed to be super good luck. It was said to ensure fertility, everlasting love, and to ward against disease, lightning, human kids being trade for changelings, and werewolves. (Of course.)

Something called Jimson Weed had traditionally been smoked to help with asthma, and it caused hallucinations, dissociation, and was heavily poisonous if the user took in the tiniest bit more than was medically suggested.

There was fungus called _Ophiocordyceps unilateralis_ that infected ants with its spores, grew and spread through the insect body, then took over the ant’s nervous system, forcing it to climb upward and grab tight to a perch, before killing the ant and producing a new stalk, that in turn released more of the spores to infect more ants. (Not at all useful in his magic studies, but still fucking terrifying and awesome. It was more commonly called the _zombie fungus_!)

And coriander and cilantro? Yeah, they were the same thing.

Now, if Stiles could just convince Derek to add a greenhouse to the latest Hale House Rebuild blueprints…


	6. Rules 15 through 16

**Rule 15: Cook everything with lots of herbs and the ‘good spoon’**

The Good Spoon was his babcia’s fault, really. Nana Stilinski had given it to Stiles’ mother when she married the sheriff. After Claudia’s death, it had been ignored, in the back of a kitchen drawer for years.

Then the Stilinski grandparents came around for the High Holidays. Nana went hunting for the spoon while she was making Lokshen kugel for Yom Kippur and muttered something that sounded like Yiddish (which Stiles _should_ have understood, but _didn’t_ ) over the ingredients, and when they all dug in the next night, Stiles would swear it was better than he ever remembered.

So the next time he was making dinner, he dumped in some herbs, then grabbed the Spoon. And the meal was awesome.

Stiles was willing to admit it eventually got a little out of hand.

“A _little?_ ” his father scoffed at Stiles’ lackluster admission. He waved around at the kitchen. Everything was in chaos, drawers yanked open, items scattered around, and most of the cutlery was on the floor.

And Stiles stared awkwardly at the mess, one hand tugging at his hair, the other firmly clutching the recently-lost Good Spoon. “Okay, maybe more than a little. But it’s Purim! I’m not even attempting Nana’s Hamentashen without the magic spoon.”

The sheriff rolled his eyes and declared, “I’m never forgiving my mother for this. Now, please clean up before you start baking anything.” It was meant to be an order, but sounded more like begging at this point.

“You got it, Daddy-o!” The finger guns Stiles shot him made the sheriff’s headache increase exponentially.

* * *

**  
Rule 16: Jars**

Stiles had picked up a few packs of mason jars. One set each of 12 quarts and 12 pints, all wide mouthed, should be enough right?

It was not enough. Not nearly.

There was Fire Ball in a Jar (incendiary version), and Fireball in a Jar (alcoholic version).

Diana’s Shadow temporarily neutralized the effects of wolfsbane, and St. Paul’s Potion (New & Improved Version!) could be used on the now extremely rare occasions Erica’s epilepsy popped up, calming the seizures. There was Snakebite, which caused intense, burning pain at the pulse points on the wrist, neck and inner thigh. (The agony was short term and there was no lasting harm, making it useful in interrogations. Peter found the recipe, and he and Stiles cooked up a batch. Scott refused to talk to his best friend for a solid week after the first time they used it on a captured bábuk, when they realized it was hunting and sharing meals with a stranded vrykolakas.)

Mimir’s Well allowed the drinker full access to subconscious knowledge and faded memories. Mirror Mirror gave the user a perfect reflective surface for scrying and magnified any inherent abilities to the same effect. Tooth of Dragon, poured out on the ground, created ghostly warriors. The images couldn’t actually touch anything, and had no sentience, but they would continue to move until the potion was diluted by pouring water over it, making them a great distraction. Vampire Nip (actually referred to in the ancient texts as a “bloodgiving” spell) increased the body’s ability to produce blood.

The two Shakespeare-inspired blends were Juliet’s Rest (a heavy duty sleep potion), and Witches Meet (steaming it was supposed to cause torrential rain for a full four miles around the brew).

Stiles completely made up a few: Invisible Man and Winter Winds and Seven Beans Dry and Willow Wailing. Though whether they would work the way he wanted required test subjects, and until said potions were necessary on a life saving level no one was willing to volunteer to play guinea pig. All four were fairly straightforward. (The first didn’t actually cause invisibility. Instead, it made the eyes of anyone looking slide off the person who ingested it. Winter Winds gave the drinker the ability to freeze things by breathing on them, for about twenty minutes. The bean one was, for all intents and purposes, a dry soup mix that, when a heat spell was added, turned into a stew with triple the original nourishment of the ingredients. And Willow Wailing fought fevers slightly better than over the counter medicine.)

Then Stiles started taking cues from pop culture and got creative.

A heavy-duty painkiller that worked on the wolves got named Zydrate, and Stiles had spent the whole brewing process singing (badly) _Thankless Job_.

The Water Breathing potion’s effects were obvious, although Stiles was still working out the kinks and couldn’t figure out why it lasted a different amount of time for each brew, despite having the exact same ingredient quantities.

Two were born of his seventh grade Harry Potter obsession - Veritaserum and Pepperup. Admittedly, the first was mainly to use as an alternate to Snakebite, since Scott _still_ hated when they used it. The latter was great at first. Like coffee, times five. It even did what caffeine did, helping Stiles’ brain deal with his ADHD. Unfortunately it turned out that extended use was similar to taking too much of his Adderall, ending with Stiles wired and basically high. (The pups got hyped up on a single swallow, so they had already been banned before the effect on Stiles was revealed.)

The Princess Potion was only half inspired by Disney. The other half was all Scott. Normally, animals recognized that werewolves were superior hunters and avoided them outright. Yet Scott had figured out how to both suppress the predatory aspects of his wolf, while bringing out the animal characteristics enough that forest creatures flocked to him. When he finally opened his own veterinary practice, the True Alpha was going to lose money treating deer and squirrels that would show up for help and couldn’t pay bills. The Princess Potion let any of the pack have a similar draw to animals, and the first time Isaac and Allison had tried it, everyone had taken five thousand pictures. (It figured that Scott would end up with the two pack members who most closely resembled fairy tale royalty.)

Lydia and Stiles had worked together on the Blue Shell potion, while the Hales avoided them like the plague. That particular mix was like a self-igniting molotov cocktail on _crack_. They had tried it out just once so far, driving to the closest lake and throwing it as far in as possible. There had been an explosion, then the top of the water burned in a fifteen yard radius for two hours. The pair decided it would probably be best not to make another unless and until they both knew it was necessary, and that the fire department was on speed dial.

Mana was a little tricky. It required Stiles to basically bury a portion of his Spark in a bottle full of herbs and chocolate pudding, which could be consumed later to give him a power up after heavy duty workings. The potion required two extra elements; First was putting enough of his power to revive him without so much it exploded. Second was a really wicked curse woven through the Mana so if another practitioner tried to use it, it would turn the Spark to darkness and poison the thief’s own abilities. (The first one to try it ended up dead - a 300-something-year-old sorcerer who drained others’ magic to remain eternally youthful. It had all looked very Rasputin at the end of _Anastasia_ , collapsing into bone and dust before blowing away.)

Moon Prison Power (And the Sailor Moon style name was due to Lydia’s junior high obsession, which Stiles had taken as a possible shared interest only to get sucked in himself.) could keep a werewolf from beta or full shifting, and it stopped their healing for a few hours. Which was great when shrapnel needed to be removed, or surgery performed, but was also super dangerous and kept behind so many wards anyone trying to get to it that wasn’t hooked into the spells (Stiles, Deaton, Melissa, Lydia and Scott), would end up with both hands burned to a crisp.

A favorite of the majority of the pack members was Super Happy Power Go. With a fruit punch Powerade base, it gave the drinker increased physical power, making the shifters’ hits land with the force of a cement truck. No one was surprised when, after he’d explained the basics, Cora and Malia hatched a plot to steal Stiles’ stash. (Fortunately for everyone, Stiles had expected _someone_ would try, and sealed the jar so only he could open it. They spent three days trying to pop the lid off before sneaking it back in and feigning innocence. They didn’t appreciate the smirks Stiles kept sending their way.)

In the end, it was all of three days before the sheriff told Stiles he’d have to clean out the shed and keep his collection of strange brews in there, or the smells were going to drive John to homicide. And after nineteen days, Stiles had run through twice the number of jars he originally bought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virtual cupcakes to anyone who can name the show from which I borrowed Super Happy Power Go!


	7. Rules 17 through 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all those who guessed, the correct answer regarding Super Happy Power Go! was Leverage, “The Three Strikes Job”, and the Japanese energy drink commercial Hardison mocked up for Eliot’s baseball playing character in the con! Because I will be Leverage trash until the day I die.

**Rule 17: “Work, you little shit!”**

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Isaac had mumbled that Stiles really needed to quit saying that, since it inevitably ended badly. “You keep jinxing us!” he yelled, after that time Stiles mistakenly blew up a kelpie (rather than the predicted outcome of turning it to sand), and covered its attempted drowning victim (Isaac) in viscera and thick green blood.

Anyway, this one had seemed foolproof, if he could just get the enchantment to stick.

Deaton had mentioned how hard it could be to meld magic with electric based machines. Still, Stiles was determined to make this work. If he could ward his Jeep to kingdom come and back, well enough that getting knocked off the road by a furious cyclops and then rolling down a hill in the preserve without so much as a scratch on Roscoe’s baby blue paint job, spelling a vacuum to suck the hats off of redcaps should’ve been _way_ easier.

It wasn’t.

“Work, you little shit!” he snarled, overturning a bucket of ashes on the canister vacuum. (The ashes used to be two of his red t-shirts, already in terrible condition between lacrosse practice and a few fights against the forces of the Dark Side. They were full of holes, and he’d had no trouble donating them to the cause, burning them with redwood chips and half a cup of his blood in a fire pit.)

The vacuum sparked for a moment, sputtered indignantly, released a belching cloud of dust from the end of the suction hose, then sat silent.

“Dammit!”

He read over the instructions he had cobbled together out of a few other spells, then rubbed a hand through his hair.

He needed to walk away for a little while, or the vacuum was going to end up a bunch of burnt plastic splinters.

* * *

**Rule 18: Mumble to self in public**

Two days later, he was still at it. The pack was getting good at knocking the hats off the little buggers when they caught them. But the creatures were fast and slippery as hell, not to mention armed with some very sharp knives.

And the vacuum would be perfect, if he could just get it to fucking do what he wanted.

Stiles didn’t realize he was muttering about the mess out loud until he passed Mr. Porter while he was grocery shopping. Specifically, he figured it out when the middle-aged man smiled and waved, then paused and quickly backed away, hurrying toward the cash registers and glancing back over his shoulder at Stiles like the teen was possessed. (Again.)

Finally tuning in to his own half-voice ramblings, Stiles nearly dropped the gallon of milk in his hand as his brain played back, “… _get it to work and they’ll all just fucking die._ ”

Shit. His dad was _not_ going to enjoy the calls he was bound to get about his “disturbed” son from several reactionary-but-concerned citizens today or tomorrow.

“Goddammit,” Stiles hissed, then grabbed the 2%. Sure, Lydia would whine and glare that he hadn’t picked up any skim milk, but Stiles needed to get out of the public eye before he _really_ incriminated himself.

* * *

 

**Rule 19: Wave hands**

A few nights later everyone headed out to the preserve, and Stiles brought the vacuum along. He was going to make this work, or get hamstrung by evil fairy-things while trying.

At this dramatic declaration, Derek rolled his eyes and assigned Jackson to stick to the clearing and watch Stiles’ back. Malia elected to do the same, and the trio settled into uneasy silence.

Stiles glared at the alpha’s retreating back. Malia he could deal with, and he appreciated having a few someones with wolfy strength and supernatural healing in between him and possible threats. But _Jackson?_ The jock and Stiles no longer utterly loathed one another and hell, sometimes they were even friendly. None of that meant the jackass had stopped making fun of Stiles at every available opportunity. And Stiles spending a week trying and failing to enchant a _vacuum_? Yeah, Jackson would consider that worthy of derision.

Add to that how unusual it was for Stiles to completely fail at something when he actually had his shit together, a distinct lack of sleep from obsessing over said vacuum with him not clocking more than an hour a night, and worry about the pack out hunting the bloodthirsty gnomes, and he was already primed to blow.

Then Jackson did exactly what was expected and started suggesting that Stiles was an idiot and probably using the wrong spell.

At which point the Spark lost it.

“Considering I _put together_ this goddamn incantation,” he ranted, wildly waving his arms around, hands flying as he paced and shouted, “I think I fucking _know_ it’s the right spell, since I fucking _translated_ that overblown “ _Catch up the caps and power of these creatures who would dye their wool in the blood of my pack, as I will, so mote it be_ ” into my weird, magic pseudo-language, even though that was a pain and a half, you monumental _fucker!_ It’s not my fault that _fucking thing_ -” he waved at the vacuum in fury, “-isn’t _fucking listening!_ ”

Then he marched over and grabbed it, planning to throw it at Jackson, and there was a bright flash before the machine whined to life. The hose extended on its own, shooting up like a dog tracking a rabbit and began speeding toward the trees. Keeping a hold of the canister body, Stiles tried to stop it, only to be relentlessly dragged forward. Jackson and Malia rushed in to grab him, and they were all hauled along.

Twenty minutes later the pack had reconvened. The vacuum sat silently on its side, dust bag full to bursting with rust-stained hats. Muddy crimson puddles were scattered across the forest floor from what used to be the redcaps. And Stiles had done a quick victory dance, stuck out his tongue at Jackson, and collapsed against Derek before passing out. His snores echoed out of the Camaro’s open windows while the rest of the pack divided up the rides home.

After buckling Stiles in the back, Derek drove them to the Stilinski house. Parking in front, he quietly climbed out and came around to carry Stiles into the house. He nodded to John, still up watching the late night news, on his way to the stairs. After tucking Stiles into bed, he shifted to his full wolf form and climbed up beside the boy.

Settling in, head resting on Stiles’ chest, Derek let out a fond huff that the entire pack knew conveyed the term “idiot” without a single word, then he snuffled, closed his eyes and joined his mate in sleep.


	8. Rules 20 through 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is the chapter that the tags about the misogynistic jerk who makes some pretty crude comments about Erica and epilepsy comes in.

**Rule 20: Point while staring intensely and feeling things**

Travis Holstein had been bothering Erica, in between sharing his plans next year to pledge Kappa Sigma when he got into Stanford (Not _if_ he got in, _when_. As if his choice of frat wasn’t proof enough he was a douche…), despite no one asking.

It had started with what Stiles assumed Travis thought were sly comments about how much hotter Erica was now that she wasn’t likely to "start spazzing". Then it moved on to less subtle things. Things that, if Erica wasn’t determined to make it through the school year without getting kicked out, probably would have cost Travis several broken limbs.

Still, no one was okay with it. Allison was making “theoretical” proposals that involved kidnapping Holstein and leaving him tied up… _somewhere_. Isaac had to be stopped twice from borrowing the local cemetery’s backhoe and destroying the asshole’s shiny new BMW. Mason offered to steal everything out of Holstein’s school locker, and Liam suggested burning whatever they found. (They still weren’t sure whether the pack’s newest wolf had always had pyromaniac tendencies and now they were simply uninhibited, or if his need for setting things on fire was a brand new effect of the change. Either way, shutting him down every time he suggested a lighter as the best answer to a problem was Scott’s job.)

The cousins (Cora, Malia and Derek) had a very basic plan - corner him somewhere after school, wear masks or stuff Holstein’s head in a sack, then beat the hell out of him. So long as it wasn’t on school property, they argued, or anywhere with surveillance, he wouldn’t be able to identify them or tie the assault back to the shit he was pulling at BHHS.

In the end, Stiles struck first, without making any sort of plan ahead of time.

He was walking with Erica to their next classes, arguing about the New 52 Wonder Woman, specifically whether the addition of Orion as a teased love interest had been good or bad for the run. Then Holstein planted himself in Erica’s path, purposefully blocking her way.

The blonde seriously considered running him over, but Harris was standing outside his classroom and watching the halls like a hungry vulture, looking for any excuse to hand out detentions. And since he had it out for Stiles in particular, and anyone who was friendly with him by proxy, Erica rolled her eyes and paused.

“What now?” she glared.

Stiles stayed at her elbow, eyes narrowing. Holstein barely gave the other boy a dismissive glance before he zeroed in on Erica. Well, Erica’s chest. And while making people drool over her breasts normally gave the girl a confidence boost, in this case it made her feel uncomfortable and like she needed a shower.

“Babe,” he started, winking and reaching for Erica’s shoulder. She dodged and Holstein scowled, his tone edging toward threatening as he spit out, “Y’know, after that video last year of you shaking and pissing yourself, I thought you’d be the last chick on campus I’d fuck. But now that I'm finally giving you some positive attention, you decide to play hard to get? I’m willing to stick my dick in your whiny bitch mouth even if you start spazzing, give you something better to choke on then your own tongue. But you’ll only get the D if you keep your teeth to yourself like a good slut and quit pulling this frigid cunt act.”

Erica’s jaw dropped, her eyes involuntarily began to water, and the slightest tremble traveled through her frame as she stood in stunned silence.

Despite his predisposition to let the students all but kill each other, and his hatred for the pack due to their connection with Stiles, Harris blanched at the crude language and made an aborted move forward to intervene.

Stiles got there first, crowding aggressively between Erica and the shitstain, poking him in the chest and forcing him back a step. Stiles felt power rush up from his chest and through his arm, and he guessed that his eyes were probably glowing a faint amber color. In that moment, too angry for words, he was consumed with the need for Holstein to pay for his sexist language, to know what it felt like to be as humiliated as Erica had felt after the video had made the rounds.

And the focus of his rage flinched, instinctively scared of Stiles’ murderous expression. Before he knew what he was doing, Holstein had turned and hurried away.

After another quiet moment, Erica leaned her head against Stiles' shoulder. “Thanks, Batman,” she whispered.

“No problem, Catwoman,” he responded, forcing himself to smile brightly and offer her his elbow, escorting her to the door of Harris’ classroom before continuing on his way to geometry.

Erica held her head high, flicked back her curls, and sauntered to her table with her hips on maximum sway. Fuck Holstein, or anybody else who thought she owed them because she was hot.

It wasn’t until lunch that they discovered the rest of the callous teen’s day had been all downhill. Lydia had delighted in passing on the gossip.

Apparently, the very next class period Holstein had got back a test worth 15% of his total grade marked with a big red F, a leak in the second story bathroom had flooded his locker, the girl he hooked up with every so often had texted that she was dumping him for his college sophomore brother, he had explosive diarrhea in gym, found out his car had been towed for a dozen overdue parking tickets as he tried to argue around stomach cramps and frantic runs to the restroom that he could drive himself home, and when his mother showed up to take him to the doctor, he’d tripped on the school’s front steps and sprained an ankle _and_ a wrist.

After listening in shocked glee, Erica proclaimed Stiles her hero, and he got a succession of high-fives, fistbumps and hugs from the pack.

* * *

**Rule 21: Beg the universe to help you make this shit work**

Flush from his latest success, Stiles decided to try something a little more complicated.

He had already managed to bribe, beg and extort every place with the sheriff’s department in their delivery zone not to take any food orders from his dad. But the bane (okay, one of the banes) of Stiles’ existence was the vending machine in the PD’s break room. All it took was a few quarters, and his dad could get something full of sugar or fat or salt, or _all three_ , and that was just not okay with Stiles. If the sheriff was going to live to 150, as Stiles intended, the lawman had to eat better.

Thus his plan for the detested appliance.

Still, he really should have expected the reactions of the other officers when Deputy Parrish caught him nearly tipping the machine.

All his protests that he simply wanted to check something on the manufacturer’s sticker (inconveniently located on the back, he tried to explain) were ignored. The cops had heard what happened to the one at the hospital from Melissa one of the night’s she came to pick up the sheriff for a date. And they didn’t trust Stiles, whether through clumsiness or attempting to watch his dad’s diet, not to destroy the thing.

So Stiles, his plan to place a sigil on the vending machine that would have made his dad’s eyes slide right past it as though it wasn’t there foiled, decided to try the magic long distance.

Parking the jeep in the side lot, right in front of the windows to the break room, he set himself up on the hood with a representation of the machine (a little piece of plexiglass screwed into a small square of metal) and a knife, carved the symbol into the acrylic layer, and spent the next few hours doing his best to concentrate on the appliance while he muttered a spell over and over that was basically pleading with the powers of the universe to make it work.

Despite being unable to touch the focal point of his attempted magic, when his father wandered into the break room around noon and paused at the door, for half a minute Stiles believed it had worked. Then John pinched at the bridge of his nose and pulled out his phone.

A text tone beeped from Stiles’ pocket and he jumped. “Crap,” he mumbled, opening the waiting message.

**Stiles, why is there a sign on the vending machine at work warning everyone that it needs to be protected from you?**

As he tried to decide how to respond (Probably with something scolding about his dad not being allowed Ho-Hos anyway, so why should he care?), the sheriff looked up and noticed him through the window. After a double take, John raised a brow and waved his hand in a “what are you doing?” motion, before heading for the door, and doubtless the exit to confront his son after that.

Rather than wait around to try to explain, Stiles decided that retreat was the better part of valor, and hurried to slide into Roscoe and drive swiftly away.

Someone would surely share the story with the sheriff eventually, and Stiles would really prefer it not be him.

* * *

**Rule 22: Have a pile of rocks, because you can never have enough pretty rocks**

Giving up, at least for now, Stiles decided it would be in his best interest to retreat to his mediation spot. The first few weeks of this whole Spark Thing, he’d followed Deaton’s instructions to the letter, watching for stones or pebbles that gave him a positive feeling. (He was beginning to believe that maybe Deaton wasn’t cryptic, he was just a hippie at heart.) He had then carefully placed them, until everything felt right. He called it his Summoning Portal.

Scott, on the other hand, called it “That big pile of weird rocks.”

Stiles needed a new best friend.


	9. Rule 23

**Rule 23: Simultaneously have too many and not enough jars**

“I need a jar!” he screamed, running through the house, holding the boiling pot out in front of him and praying it didn’t explode.

Stiles had yanked it off the heat three minutes ago, but the bubbles kept fucking coming, faster and bigger, and the side of the pot was still an eerie red that promised second-degree burns to anyone dumb enough to touch it.

From the opposite side of the house, in chorus with the sounds of her frantic rummaging, Erica yelled back, “How can you have five million jars, and not _one_ of them is _empty_?”

“Potions accumulate, okay?” he shrieked back.

Twenty minutes later, with the now lumpy, slightly glowing orange liquid safely contained in a jar they had recently emptied of spaghetti sauce (God, it was a good thing he’d cut off his dad grabbing the stuff that came in a tin can. The sodium had been off the charts in those.), and both of them slumped over, him on the kitchen floor and Erica across the table, she had angrily muttered, “Next time, _Isaac_ gets to help. I’m done with this bullshit. I’m too hot to be your lab assistant.”

Stiles just waved his arm over his head, facedown on the ground.

“Great,” she huffed, taking his lack of response for agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am right in the middle of moving, and am spending a few days staying at my aunt's in a room full of boxes of my shit until the woman currently living in my new apartment has left. As a result, short chapter (which I was planning to add to before posting) stayed short. Sorry.


	10. Rules 24 through 25

**Rule 24: Random lumpy bundles, all over your house, in your pockets, up your sleeves, hanging from trees, buried in the yard, buried furtively in public land**

“Stiles, what did you just shove in my bag?” Lydia demanded.

“Nothing,” Stiles quickly replied, wide-eyed and failing to project innocence.

Reaching into her purse, she dug around until she pulled out the sachet. “Well _nothing_ smells like Prada’s last training accident.”

Stiles fidgeted for a few seconds under her glare before he spilled his guts faster than Joe Valachi faced with the death penalty. “It’ll give you extra luck in your college interview later,” he admitted in a rush.

She considered first him, then the bundle, carefully. Finally, she held it out for him to take. “I don’t need magic for this to go well, and showing up stinking of urine is _not_ the impression I’d like to make today.”

Dejected, he took the sachet back and glared down at it. He’d nearly messed up the balance of the ingredients when he sprayed it with Febreeze, trying to hide the scent, and then the stupid stuff hadn’t done any good anyway.

Lydia touched his shoulder, and he jerked and looked up, only for her to lean in and brush a kiss lightly across his cheek. “Thank you for wanting to help, Stiles.”

While he may not have had a thing for her anymore, having one of his best friends acknowledge his attempts to help always left him glowing. (Metaphorically, not literally... most of the time.) With a wide grin, he offered her two thumbs up. “No problem, Lyds. Knock ‘em dead.”

With a confident sniff and a toss of her hair, she announced, “I intend to do better than that, Stiles.” Then she marched away on her bright purple kitten heels, off to conquer the world. (Or at least the interview.)

* * *

His next few attempts went similarly. The wolves could smell it and only Scott let him talk it through, before handing it back. (“I studied for this one, Stiles! I actually know the answers, bro, so I'm good. And that’s just gonna distract me. Is there chili powder in there? ‘cause it’s making my eyes water.” And Scott did get an A on the test without the sachet.)

It actually took Jackson a full week to realize there was a weird pouch in his uniform bag. (Everything in there had that Eau De Locker Room, which overpowered anything else.) While the wolf admitted (to Lydia, anyway) that he _had_ been feeling less angry and more focused in practice, it was the principle of the thing that ended in Jackson throwing the bundle in the trash during lunch, when he was sure Stiles was watching. (“Some of those ingredients aren’t _cheap_ , jackass!” “So send me a bill, Stilinski.” “I loathe you.” “My day is complete.”)

Liam’s reaction was even worse. He had found one that was filled with almost the exact same mix as Jackson’s, and had consequentially set it on _fire_ , leaving it to burn out in front of Roscoe in the BHHS parking lot.

Mason had spent the next three days apologizing to Stiles and calling his friend a dumbass on multiple public occasions. Scott put Liam on Pack Time Out again. (“Stiles, will you please quit encouraging his arsonist tendencies?” “Dude, you sound like your mom.” “Really? Cool! …wait, that’s not the point, Stiles. _Stiles!_ ” “See you tomorrow, bro!”)

Stiles decided to bite the bullet and be more upfront with Melissa. (She was the only person he’d never managed to get anything past, a blessing and a curse.) After his explanation of wanting to be sure she was safe, considering how often supernatural bullshit seemed to center on the hospital, she wrapped him up in a tight hug. Still, she was worried about the possibility of patients being allergic to the ingredients and talked Stiles into looking for a talisman instead. Something he could imbue with protective mojo, which would also be surgical steel and discreet enough that she could wear it on a necklace without getting strange(r) looks.

Liam’s fire display was actually overshadowed by Malia, who had sniffed out the one Stiles had put in Kira’s backpack. It was supposed to give her a confidence boost, since she was going away for the weekend to train with her mom. Malia had dumped the contents on Stiles’ head, slugged him in the arm hard enough to leave a big purple bruise, and then threatened to punch him into next week if he tried to plant anything in the coyote’s stuff.

After a long shower, Stiles spent a few minutes on his bed, pouting, before deciding to go bug the one person who always cheered him up.

* * *

He had barely stepped into the loft when Derek jumped him. And Stiles would have been happy to go along, but instead of kisses, the wolf was just sniffing him, down his neck and chest, before pulling back with an explosive sneeze.

Yanking the cotton baggie out of Stiles’ hoodie pocket, he dropped it on the ground and growled out, “What the hell, Stiles?”

Squirming under his glare, Stiles grumbled petulantly before dropping back in a slump on the nearby couch. “None of them are gonna work if you all throw them away!” he protested.

Derek crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, waiting.

It took less than a minute for Stiles to cave. “So maybe it's a spell thing that I was gonna sneak under your mattress that's supposed to give you good dreams and allow you to better process emotional pain.”

Shoulders dropping in surprise, Derek’s expression turned soft. “You knew-?”

“That you'd been having traumatizing nightmares?” Stiles scoffed. “Yeah, dude. I think if anyone recognizes the look, it's me.”

Sitting down beside Stiles, Derek paused, then pulled up his feet and stretched out, his head coming to rest in Stiles’ lap. Automatically, long fingers started brushing through the alpha’s dark hair, and he let out a tiny sigh and smiled as his eyes slipped closed under the comforting touch. “You help more than any silly spells, Stiles.”

Stiles beamed, then frowned. “It’s not silly though! See, I started reading up on ancient greek culture and how to ward off the Evil Eye, and-”

As his mate babbled on, Derek fell into a comfortable doze, the warmth of the hand rubbing over his head the best protection against bad dreams Derek had found.

* * *

“You want to explain to me why Parrish just passed me a call from the mayor-” his father began, “-informing me that my son, who _should be home_ at three in the morning, was just seen digging a hole in the courthouse lawn and burying something Neal O’Hanassey suspected of being body parts?”

After a bit of indignant sputtering, Stiles finally responded. “And exactly how much scotch had good old Neal downed before he called the mayor with unfounded accusations in the middle of the night?”

Rubbing at his temple, the sheriff sighed. “Stiles, when I go over and check the lawn, am I gonna find anything that will make it necessary for me to detain you?”

“It’s just a bag full of random crap, okay?” Stiles protested.

After a moment of silence, the older man sighed. “Spell?” he asked.

“Spell,” admitted his son, voice mildly guilty. “But it will make it harder for people to lie on the witness stand, so really-”

The sheriff hung up.

* * *

**Rule 25: A lot of walking through the puckerbush in the dark in long, flowing skirts and masks that obscure peripheral vision. Barefoot. In early winter. For Reasons**

Deaton had explained most of the Winter Solstice rite to Stiles beforehand. What he failed to mention was what Stiles was expected to wear under the ceremonial robes. _Nothing_. Not even shoes.

Sure, it was California, so snow was rare. That didn’t mean it stayed warm year round, or that the temperature wouldn’t drop down in the 20s.

On the other hand, as much as Stiles resented Deaton waiting til the last minute to inform him of his future nakedness, he _was_ glad the vet hadn’t told him in front of the pack. That would have guaranteed Erica was already out in the preserve, just waiting for the chance to knock him down and steal the rough, gray robe, forcing him to streak home, bare ass and bits dangling in the breeze.

When the day came, Stiles got dropped off at Deaton’s office and had barely made it in and waved hello when Deaton offered him a bundle of cloth. Ducking into the bathroom to change, Stiles finished fairly quickly then headed for the door. Which was when Deaton stopped him and explained the whole nudity thing, hand held out and wearing an amused expression.

Stiles spent a minute spluttering, pointing out that the weather channel had estimated it would get down to 23° F around 3 AM (“That’s nine degrees below freezing, Deaton!”), and how much of the preserve he’d have to cover _barefoot_.

And Deaton stood there, silent and waiting, until Stiles groaned and reached under the robe to start pulling off layers. His red hoodie, a striped sweater, a plaid overshirt, two t-shirts (one a plain black, the other was emblazoned with the three Team Rocket members on the front, and their motto on the back), his broken-in converse, two pairs of socks, jeans, Spiderman boxers, and despite the pile Deaton had been setting aside on the exam table, the man still held him back until he had snipped off the wristband from the Kings of Leon concert the pack had gone out to LA for, last week.

Leading Stiles through the clinic's side door to stand on the cold dirt behind the building, Deaton handed Stiles a mask, molded and painted to the appearance of a wolf, and his scrimshaw totem. Walking in a circle around the teen, Deaton sprinkled him with a mix of ground turmeric, valerian and tansy in spring water. Pulling out a smudge stick of white sage and a few stalks of dried rosemary, he lit it, only to blow it back out. As the smoke rose around them, he directed the pale plumes around Stiles, until the boy was covered in a layer of the combined scents.

“As the wheel of the year turns, we honor the endless cycle of birth, life, death and rebirth. We call on the powers of the world and ask a blessing upon this, their proxy, as he bids farewell to the darkness and welcomes the return of the light. He walks clothed in love for his pack and love for these lands, and carries with him the promise of protection, longevity and purification across the frozen soil. Let our words be heard, on this the longest night,” he intoned, cadence low and strong.

Turning Stiles clockwise until he faced the nearby trees, the last light of the sun dipped below the western horizon. A heavy warmth pooled beneath the skin of Stiles’ feet and traveled upward in waves of heat, until he no longer felt the chill of the air or the ground.

As though a path had been lit before him, Stiles was drawn unerringly forward into the forest. Time passed in a blur as he walked, and it took nearly twenty minutes before he recognized that the steady flow of sound that accompanied his journey was his own voice, murmuring the same phrase over and over. “Blessed be the long sleep of the dormant earth. Blessed be the return of the awakening sun.”

When the dawn finally broke in the east, just under fifteen hours after he’d begun, Stiles stumbled to a stop beside the Nemeton. His memories of the period between, spent traversing the farthest edges of pack territory, were a hazy collection of strange moments.

He remembered hiking along the side of the big highway as cars whipped past, none of the drivers seeming to notice him. He remembered passing a herd of deer, wandering beneath a redwood whose branches were heavy with crows, stepping through a nest of snakes. All of the animals had watched him, unafraid, soundless and still as though bearing witness. He waded through the shallowest part of the river and while he felt the current, he didn’t feel the frigid temperature. And always, shadowing his steps at the edge of his sight, protecting him, were two predators with glowing red eyes.

Now, in the clearing, he nearly fell, and they were suddenly there, holding him up on either side - Derek on his right and Scott on his left, their eyes still bright crimson. The shivering set in, hard enough to leave his whole body shaking, and Stiles’ feet started to ache.

He let his alphas lead him to the Nemeton, and he collapsed to sit on one of the larger roots that curled out of the earth. Pulling off and setting aside the false wolf face and scrimshaw, Stiles took a deep breath. Drawing the werewolves closer, both knelt at his feet, and he pushed on, determined to finish the ritual before the cold sinking into his muscles and bones made it impossible.

“Guardians of the land,” he stuttered, his voice breathless and rough, “be recognized by the darkness and the light, as the wheel of the year turns. Leaders of the pack, be recognized by your duty to all that dwell within your territory, as the wheel of the year turns. Brothers in nature, be recognized by your emissary, as the wheel of the year turns.” Brushing his fingers over one forehead, he stooped to kiss Derek’s brow, then repeated the process with Scott. “Let my words be heard, on this the longest night. As I will, so mote it be.”

With the last word, he collapsed forward in a light doze.

The alphas exchanged a worried look. Deaton had warned them Stiles would be exhausted by the end of the night, but they hadn’t expected him to fall asleep.

Derek lifted him softly into his arms, while Scott scooped up the mask and totem, tucking them under one arm and reaching out with the other hand to circle Stiles’ ankle, black lines crawling up his arm as he drew away the pain in his best friend’s feet.

It took them ten minutes to reach the Camaro, and after sliding Stiles into the back seat, Derek paused, staring down at his keys. Shrugging, he quietly called, “ _Scott_.”

The younger wolf glanced up and caught the tossed keys mostly on instinct. Shocked, his eyebrows shot up. Derek ignored his surprise and climbed in the back to wrap himself around Stiles, sharing his greater body heat.

The jostling half-woke Stiles, who tried to sit up when Scott sank into the driver’s seat and turned on the car. Derek pushed Stiles back down, but both alphas heard him mumble, “Did I do it right?”

Scott watched in the rearview mirror as Derek gently pulled their emissary closer and assured him, “You were perfect, Stiles.”

With a faint, pleased smile, Stiles snuggled into Derek’s warmth and dropped back off to sleep.

* * *

Several days later, Stiles limped into Deaton’s office, sneezing hard enough to make the vet jump. The cold had shown up the morning after the ritual, and so far looked like it was more than a 24 hour bug.

Standing, Deaton picked up a bag he’d placed beside his desk and offered it to Stiles - all his clothes had been folded and tucked inside. “Congratulations,” he told Stiles as he handed off the bag. “The land now recognizes you as the pack emissary. And luckily you won’t have to repeat the ceremony until June-”

Stiles cut him off, head shooting up. “ _Repeat it?_ ” he demanded.

“Yes,” Deaton confirmed. “Twice a year, on the summer and winter solstice, until either your pack loses or gives up the territory, or you pass the mantel to another practitioner.”

Stiles mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t get a single word out.

“I won’t miss performing it,” Deaton chuckled. “It’s surprisingly tiring.”

Stiles groaned, long and loud, and stomped back out the door as best he could on blistered feet. And Deaton watched him go, silently pleased at how far the Spark had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for well wishes on the move! Everything is at least *at* the new place, if still mostly boxed up. And next week is the last chapter of this story. I hope you've all enjoyed it!


	11. The Rules, Abridged!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!

**Stiles Stilinski’s Rules of Witchcraft, Abridged!**

 

**Is is liquid or granular? Bless it**

“I mean, blessing it by moonlight’s awesome and works great, but sometimes you just want something with a little more bang for your buck, and a little less “runs with wolves” cliche, y’know?”

“So you broke into a _nuclear power plant?_ _Mieczysław Januszovich Stilinski_ -”

“The full name treatment? Really? Next time, I’m calling Derek for bail money.”

“If there’s a next time, I’m arresting you myself!”

* * *

**Did you buy it? Consecrate it.**

“Why exactly was the olive oil not used?”

“I used it all in a recipe the night before.”

“And your fall back was store-bought, canned and frozen orange juice?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“It shouldn’t have.”

“But did!”

“I wonder if Marin would still be interested in finishing up your apprenticeship…”

“Hey!”

* * *

**Did you dig it up? Charge it.**

“And _that’s_ how you charge an axinite shard!”

“I’m scarred for life, bro. Like, I love you, man, but _please_ never involve me in this ritual again.”

“Shut up, you are such a wuss.”

“Dude, I see you in the school locker room all the time, I _do not_ need to see my _brother_ dancing around naked! Deaton never said _anything_ about nudity.”

“Fucker never does until it's too late to back out! ...we’re still on for that CoD marathon later, right?”

“Sure. So long as you promise to wear pants.”

“You are such a fun ruiner, dude.”

* * *

**Did you invoke it? MOTHERFUCKING KNOW HOW TO BANISH IT, YOU UNREMITTING ASS CANKER!**

“Oooooh, _fuck_ , I didn't know it could go that wrong.”

“Stiles, I am going to-!”

“Rip my throat out with your teeth, yeah. I got that, Sourwolf. But considering it’s turning this way and looks hungry, you might have to get in li- ah shit. _Run!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original tumblr thread can be found here:  
> https://theactualcluegirl.tumblr.com/post/148558581727/how-to-witchcraft  
> The rules were created by the following:  
> earth-horn (1-5); thecarvingwitch (6-7); veevigil (8); singingsparks (9); lockswitch (10); stormwaterwitch (11-12); fish-buns (13); earth-horn (again, 13 and 1/2); magical-little-fawn (14); youcantseebutimmakingaface (15); littlewitchlingrowan (16-17); canadianwanderingpagan (18-19); blackbearmagic (20); here-be-vultures (21); wolven-witch-girl1031 (22); mumblesandthings (23); beautytruthandstrangeness (24-25); theactualcluegirl (chapter 11 list).  
> This was written tongue-in-cheek, but also with the utmost respect to the religious and spiritual practices of those mentioned. If any of their tumblrs have changed since, please let me know and I will fix the credits.  
> Thanks for the ride, folks!


End file.
